Les Mots Vrais (or Twisting Facts to Suit Theories)
by Sabine Michaelis
Summary: Watson learns French, and perhaps a few things that Holmes does not want him to know.


Sherlock Holmes had no idea when it had become so dark. All he knew was that one moment he had been attempting to extract the venom from a common wolf spider, and the next he had found himself having to light the candles that were strewn haphazardly around his bedroom, secured to the floor by pools of hardened wax. Of course, his lack of sense of time might have been helped had the grandfather clock on the corner been in working order—but he had long since removed the pendulum and melted it down when he had run out of clean syringes. He tapped the tiny vial of venom against his palm, preventing the liquid from congealing, before reopening it and beginning to coat his hair-thin copper darts with it. There were twelve in all, and each received three dips in the venom.

He had just set the darts on his makeshift desk (a wooden box that had once contained cigars) to dry when he heard the front door open and the familiar footsteps of Watson. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the tall man stride past the doorway, cane swinging jauntily. He heard the rustling sounds of Watson removing his coat and hat in the next room, and other sounds as he rearranged the papers on his desk, presumably adding some notes he had taken during the day at his practice. Then Holmes realized that he had frozen mid-movement to listen to his friend in the next room. He hadn't even noticed that he had stopped working. That was worrying. Nothing should have made him stop working. He resolutely turned his back to the door and started to hum to block out the noises and stifle the impulse to listen to them. He shook his head to clear it and resumed what he had been doing. However, his ears were still pricked to hear the sound of Watson walking past his room again and lighting the fire in the parlor. He had wondered why it had become so cold. "You'll be pleased to hear that my French has improved." Came Watson's voice from the parlor after he had straightened and put away the bellows—Holmes had stopped humming. "Really?" he replied with a studiedly uninterested tone. He did not turn as Watson entered the room. Then he chuckled, "Though I suppose it couldn't have gotten any worse." Though he could not see him, he knew that the doctor's handsome face was attempting to be offended even with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Holmes knew that Watson knew that Holmes knew it, and was waiting for him to make a comeback when the other man asked exasperatedly, "Holmes, what _are _you doing?" Holmes heard him step closer to peer at the copper darts and small pot of a bubbling and probably deadly concoction, and he felt an odd tingling feeling that he put down to the venom. "Preparing a Christmas gift for Gladstone." He replied nonchalantly. Before Watson could begin his protest, he glanced back at the doctor. "Bon. Say something." Then he turned back to his work, giving the careful impression of not listening too closely. The darts were fully dry now, and he placed them gently in a leather pouch and stowed them away for later. He then turned his attention to the small pot boiling over his gas flame—if he let it cook too long the fumes might knock them all unconscious. Watson was silent for a while before he said "Je t'aime." He sounded surprised at the words coming out of his own mouth.

Sherlock Holmes heard his heart stop, then stutter back to life again at a frantic pace. It felt as if he had been kicked in the chest by a horse…and…a flock of pigeons seemed to have taken roost in his abdomen. Then he realized that his silence might be construed in ways that he did not want, ways that might strain their delicate friendship, and he forced a laugh. It sounded a little panicky, even to him. So he decided to cover it, and the sound of Watson shifting on the floorboards, with some talk. "Of course. That's the first sentence one learns in any language. I, myself, can say it in at least ten." His hand was shaking as he stirred the viscous liquid in the pot. It must just be the heat that was upsetting him, he thought, and lowered the flame. The silence, barely a few seconds long, was also making him jittery. Why wouldn't Watson say anything? Anything _else_. Holmes began to chatter again, searching his mind for the words. "Let's see. Je t'aime. Te quiero. Wo ai ni. Ai shiteru. Ik houd van u. Ich liebe dich. Ti amo. Ya tebya lyublyu. Eu te amo." French, Spanish, Mandarin, Japanese, Dutch, German, Italian, Russian, Portuguese…he was running out of languages, and running out of nerve. He had never expected to say any of these things to the man standing behind him, although he had imagined saying them many times in hushed tones and by candlelight. There had to be more. "Oh!" he exclaimed, pushing away the images that had appeared so oft in his dreams. Greek. "And s'agapo." Watson laughed. It was a soft sound, wonderful no matter how many times Holmes heard it, but filled him sadness today. He turned off the stove and spooned the thick, silvery concoction into five small vials that he had kept in his shirt pocket. "Mais tu ne peux pas savoir que les mots sont vrais." He muttered, trying to ignore and give the impression of having forgotten all about the man standing behind him. "Hmm?" Watson inquired. Holmes let out a small sigh of relief, and then turned it into an absent-sounding throat clearing noise. He cast about for something to say, and then abruptly asked, "Can you go fetch me my pipe?" Watson hummed acquiescence and Holmes listened with pathetic rapt attention to his retreating footsteps and the whisper of his shifting clothes. As he paused to pull the door up behind him, Holmes could have sworn that he heard the whispered words. "Toi non plus."

He dropped the vial, and the antidote spilled onto the wood flooring. Then he scolded himself for twisting facts to suit theories.

***Translations: "I love you." "But you cannot know that the words are true." "Neither can you."**


End file.
